Trust
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: Trusting and crying and only being strong most of the time. Everything Malcolm needs to know, he learned from Trip. MalcolmJon friendship, post TATV.


Disclaimer: If I owned Enterprise, Trip would be alive and well.

AN: Fourth in the series of TATV-inspired fics by me, the first two being companion fics 'For Elizabeth' and 'For Trip', and the third being 'Pancakes with Peanut Butter, Eaten Alone'. After this, there may be one or two more, then I will try to get on with my life, sans Trip Tucker. Jeez, does anyone else feel like one of their friends actually did die? Anyway, inspired by some of the dialogue and events, here is a short conversation between Malcolm and Archer on the day of Trip's funeral. If you are a Trip fan and have any heart in your body, this _will_ make you cry. You have been warned.

_Trust_

The room still smelled like Trip. It wasn't that he'd worn horribly obvious cologne, or left sweat socks lying everywhere (although, on occasion, he had done both). It was more subtle a smell, a barely present combination of engine greases, shaving cream and pecan pie. It hung lightly over the quarters, as though Trip were still there, standing right besides him, about to make a snappy remark or surprisingly insightful comment. Like what he had said a few days ago, _I never thought it would end_. Despite himself, despite his pessimistic nature, Malcolm never really suspected that it would have, either, at least not like this. Most of the crew, he and Trip included, were planning to stay with Archer on his next ship. It wouldn't have been the _Enterprise_, but they still would have had each other.

But now they didn't. Now no one had Trip. Trip was dead.

Malcolm felt himself sink onto the bare, sheetless bed. All the rooms on the _Enterprise_ were stripped empty in preparation for the decommissioning. But this room had a different kind of emptiness to it--- an emptiness that reminded all who entered that its rightful occupant was dead. Trip himself had not been the one to take the pictures off the wall and stack the books and uniforms neatly in a suitcase. That had been T'Pol's doing, and Malcolm found himself wishing that she hadn't done such a thorough job. Couldn't they have left something, some remnant of Trip? He could go down with his ship, when it was decommissioned. That seemed more appropriate, somehow, than sending his possessions back to his parents on Earth. Earth wasn't Trip's real home, anymore. It hadn't been for years.

"Home's with us, Trip, remember?" Malcolm said quietly. "Home's with the captain, and T'Pol, and me…" Malcolm fell back slowly until the wall was the only thing holding him upright. He closed his eyes and tried to picture Trip sitting in the desk chair; Trip, comfortably sprawled on the floor. Trip, sitting right next to him, so close that their bodies were touching, sharing warmth, just like they had ten years ago when they were trapped in a tiny shuttlepod on the day that Malcolm realized, like it or not, the two of them would become best friends.

A choked feeling rose in Malcolm's throat, and he beat it down. He hadn't cried when he'd gotten the news, and he wasn't about to cry now.

So instead of that, he tried to get angry. Tried to get mad as hell at the aliens, who'd taken Trip from him, at the captain, for not thinking of something himself, at Trip… for being stupid. For trying to take on the intruders himself. Always had to be the hero, didn't he? Always had to save the day.

All that train of thought got Malcolm was angry at himself. He had no right to be mad at Trip. No one did. Trip had always been that way, heroic, moreso after his sister was killed and even moreso after he lost his daughter. If it was anyone's fault, really, it was Malcolm's own, for not snapping Trip out of it sooner. If he'd just have stopped and smooth-talked the aliens for a few moments, given Malcolm and his team the time to get there…

Malcolm's eyes shot open. "Damnit," he cursed. "_Goddamnit_!" He jumped to his feet and looked wildly around the room, fingers itching for something to throw, something to take his self-hatred out on. The room was bare, though. There was nothing in it but him.

Letting out a single, dry sob, Malcolm fell back to the bed and huddled in on himself, bending over his knees and burying his face in his hands. "Damnit," he whispered. Then the door chime rang.

Malcolm lifted his head from his hands and stared at it apathetically. It wasn't as if that was going to be Trip. It wasn't as if Phlox had whipped up some miracle and managed to save him. It wasn't as if his best friend was going to walk through the door and tell him it was all some horrible mistake. Malcolm would had to have been an optimist, a man of faith, to believe any of that. And, as Trip reminded him so many times, that was the last thing he was.

Then the door opened and a tall, lanky man stepped over the threshold. His hair stuck out at odd angles, as though he'd slept badly on it, and his muscles were tense with pain. A rough tenor voice called Malcolm's name, and in that moment, he allowed himself to wonder if it was a miracle, after all. Then the figure stepped forward to let the door slide closed and Malcolm found himself staring into the bloodshot eyes of Jonathan Archer. Of course, it couldn't have been Trip. What had he been thinking?

"Am I interrupting?" Archer asked quietly. His voice sounded completely devoid of its usual strength; Malcolm wondered how he could've ever mistaken it for Trip's lively drawl. "I didn't think anyone would be here; I rang the bell out of habit…" He trailed off.

"You're not interrupting, sir," Malcolm replied, forcing himself to sit up straighter. "That is, Captain, I assume you're here for the same reason I am."

Archer made no noise to confirm or deny it. Instead he stood and let his eyes roam the quarters, searching for what Malcolm had been: some tangible evidence that Trip was still there. He as well found none.

"T'Pol did a pretty good job, didn't she?" Archer commented, mostly to himself. "I came by yesterday when she was packing everything up."

"Yessir," Malcolm said quietly.

"Haven't you learned anything, Malcolm?" Archer snapped irritably. "It's Jon. Especially now, it's Jon." Then he closed his eyes wearily.

"Jon," Malcolm murmured, concerned. "What was the last time you slept?"

A look of pain twisted Archer's--- Jon's--- face. "I just woke up," he replied. "It's not like I'll sleep well anyway, after that."

"Sit down," Malcolm told him softly. Jon did, dropping himself heavily onto the mattress next to Malcolm.

"Trip kept bourbon in a box in the closet," Jon said dimly. "I suppose T'Pol took that too." Malcolm made a small noise of wordless agreement. "My head hurts like a sonofabitch," Jon continued. "Leave it to Trip to come up with a plan where…"

His voice broke off and Malcolm looked over. Jon was staring broodingly forward, his hands jerking almost spasmodically in his lap.

"It was rather idiotic, wasn't it," Malcolm agreed. "If he had just waited for us to get there…"

"I've known that bastard for twenty years," Jon replied, his voice husky and uneven. "Probably a little more. He never changes. He's… was as stubborn as the day I met him…"

Tears were standing in the man's brown eyes, welling at the corners and waiting to fall. "I'm sorry," Jon apologized, wiping them away harshly. "I thought I'd be the only one here…"

"It's okay," Malcolm said quickly. "There's nothing you have to be sorry for."

"Yes there is!" Jon shot back furiously. "Of course there is. I was _meters_ away when he put his little plan into action. I was… _just_ down the corridor when he blew that relay up. I could've stopped him before it even started, and I should have. I should be the one dead now, not him." Jon's head fell forward slightly and he choked. "Not him," he sobbed.

"You were unconscious, Jon," Malcolm reminded him. "You didn't have a choice." He put his hand on Jon's arm. Ten years ago, he could never have imagined physical contact like that; he could never have imagined comforting someone. Now, though, it felt all right… it felt like something Trip would do.

Jon muttered another apology, then sobbed again, and Malcolm squeezed his forearm supportively. The captain's other hand lifted and came down on top of Malcolm's, encompassing it, and Malcolm turned his hand over so that they could each grip the other's.

The absurdity of the moment was too much, too familiarly strange, and Malcolm felt the tears pool in his eyes again. Still he fought them back. Jon needed him. Trip was gone, now Malcolm had to be the strong one. He clenched his jaw together, fighting back the urge to cry.

Then he looked harder at Jon, at his contorted features, and remembered Trip in a different way. He remembered the man who hadn't cried visiting his sister's deathsite, who'd kept the feeling tightly inside him for so long that it almost killed him. He remembered two years after that, on the first anniversary of Trip's daughter's death, when he'd shown up at Malcolm's quarters at one in the morning, bawling his eyes out, drunk and absolutely distraught. Malcolm remembered leading him inside and holding him for hours, marveling at how much Trip had to trust him to open up that way in front of him. Malcolm had been touched.

He looked at Jon, and when the tears swelled again, he made no attempt to hold them back. He felt them overflow his eyes and rain down his cheeks. Then the sobs began and Jon, hearing, gripped his hand tighter. Malcolm laid his head on his friend's shoulder, trusting him not to laugh, or to tell--- trusting him just to stay. He realized that they were both leaning against each other now, holding up the other's weight, and Malcolm wondered with some satisfaction just when he'd gained the ability to trust another human being so much.

Then it hit him, evoking another sob, and a smile. He'd learned it from Trip, of course. All of it: trusting and crying and only being strong most of the time. He'd learned it from Trip.

"It almost feels like he's still here," Jon whispered. His free hand was hiding his face, slightly muffling his words. "Y'know? It almost feels like he's in the room right now. But he isn't. He can't be." Jon broke down again.

Malcolm shook his head sporadically, sending more tears tumbling down his cheeks. He was still smiling, though. "You're wrong, Jon, you know that?" Malcolm's smile widened to a grin, trembling and watery, but genuine. "He is here. I know it. I _trust_ that he is."

Jon looked up at him, surprise on his tear-stained face. Then it faded into a little smile of comprehension. "I can live with that," he said.


End file.
